in the lamplit dusk?

or am I one

among the blessed,

the singular, the misfit,

the odd one out

who keeps a foot in this world,

and one

in the next,

where I can see

the angels I was told

do not exist,

where I perceive,

more clearly now,

the urgent tasks

I've still to do.

Atropos, tell me,

will I find,

in this dimming altar-light,

the sacred and entrusted space

to leave behind,

the one our children need

to become

what they were always

meant to be?

is there a coda

you can tell,

or I can learn,

to ensure possibility

is sheltered

in the place

imagination lives

and thrives?

will I be able to ensure

safe harbour

in that other sacred space

where decency

now hides its face?

I hear the whistle wail again,

summoning me

back to the terminus

where I began,

holding firm

to one belief:

that in all desire

lives a yearning in the human heart

for epilogue,

an afterword

for every thing

that went before.